Chapter 3: Waste Products
February, Y.O.M. 1940
Sweetie Finemare stood unmoving by the headstone. Her body was draped in an all-concealing black dress. It was a very unattractive dress, even by Sweetie's eccentric standards: rather sacklike and coming down in back to below her hocks. Its only concessions to femininity were a belt gathering the garment together well forward, and some black lace trimming about the collar. But then, Sweetie wasn't feeling very feminine right now.
Her outfit included a large, broad-brimmed hat, from which depended a totally-obscuring veil. This was also traditional, and, in her present state, Sweetie rather approved of the main effect of this veil, which enabled her to see out into the well-lit day, but ensured that nopony could see her expression. Or any tears.
Though, right now, she wasn't actually crying. Well, not much.
***
She'd cried when the doctors had told her there was no hope. She'd cried when Rich -- that good and gentle stallion who in the few short years they'd had together had given her nothing but the joy of his friendship and the pleasure of his love, had screamed in agony. Those very same doctors, who had told her that he had no chance to live, had explained that they couldn't give him more morphine because too much might make him die.
She'd cried then, at the cruelty and unfairness of a world that had let her taste true love, only to rob her of it so soon -- a harsh world in which the life of a paragon of all the virtues like Rich Greentree mattered no more than that of the vilest criminal. She and Rich had worked with that radium, back in 1935 and 1936, on the master's thesis which had originally attracted the attention of the organizers of the Project, and he'd been her assistant, and she'd had him do the heavy work because that's what stallions do, and he must have been more exposed than her. That simple.
I wasn't even eighteen yet, she thought. Not a mare for long, scarcely more than a filly, and I was really in love for the first time ever and he was just twenty and the world was bright and beautiful and our lives together just beginning, extending forth to infinity ... oh, Tambelon, the experiment was my idea, my brilliant super-genius idea, and he went along with it because he trusted me ... Some moisture ran down her cheeks. I'm sweaty under this veil, she told herself.
The Principle of Minimum Action in Quantum Mechanics, she thought, mocking herself with her own master's thesis title. I wanted to do a physical experiment because I was just a mathematician, just a blackboard-scribbler, and I wanted to be more, I wanted to be a scientist like in the pulp stories I loved, manipulating the forces of Nature for real. "That path of particle interaction occurs which requires the least energetic steps to realize." I was going to prove Occam's Razor on the quantum-mechanical level. She remembered the elegance of her experimental apparatus.
We could get the radium. We shouldn't have been able to, it would have been too expensive -- but my own brilliant brain and light little hooves took care of that, didn't they? We could get the rest of the apparatus -- just some test stands, some dime-store electronic tubes, and the cloud chamber we'd already constructed. We built a bubble-gum-and-packing-tape machine, we called it 'Finemare's Monster,' but it was beautiful and it was ours and it worked. Two teenaged scientists unlocking the mysteries of the universe together, just like in Amazing Wonder Stories.
She smiled wanly. Well, or Spicy Adventure Stories. We made love, all the way, for the very first time for both of us, right in that room next to the Monster. A memory stored up for our old age, something we could take out together and grin about when we were in our sixties, maybe hint at and disgust our children and grandchildren when we made goo-goo eyes at each other, some day in the 1980's, when everypony had a flying car but Love still worked the same.
And if we couldn't get quite as much lead shielding as some of the studies suggested, who cared? We were daring young adventurers, exploring the wonders of Nature, both in particle interactions and macroscopic biological and emotional ones.
"A particle interaction occurs, and in the resolution of all potential interactions determines which future worldline is realized, leaving the others mere ghosts from the point of view of any observer in its future on that worldline." A particle interaction such as a high-energy photon sleeting through their cloud chamber to leave a trace on the screen, or into Rich's beloved flesh to leave a trace in the mysterious germ plasm in the nuclei of his cells ...
Oh, Rich! I'm so sorry! I didn't know! I want to go back, to choose a different path! I wanted the perfect master's thesis, I wanted to be a success, but not at the cost of losing you! Never at that cost!
Her own written words rose up in memory to mock her.
"Once the interaction has been realized, the worldline chosen, other worldlines are forbidden to the observer -- become inaccessible." That's where all those worldlines were now, the ones where she and Rich grew old together, where she got to make love with him, or kiss him, or even hear his voice again ... inaccessible to her observation, forever.
***
Someone was keening, a wail of utter despair, and she thought it rather rude and over-demonstrative at her husband's funeral, and then her knees gave way and she sank onto Rich's grave, feeling the sun-warmed earth on her belly, and then she realized. Oh. That's me making that noise. I should stop. So she did.
"Sweetie," a gentle voice asked. "can I help?"
She turned her face up to see her friend Schwarzwald Fuchs, dark brown eyes almost black against his yellowish-ivory coat, close-cut light brown mane little more than a crest atop his high forehead, looking down at her with concern.
Blackie, she thought affectionately. His name was Germane for "Black Forest," and she'd taken to calling him "Blackwood," or "Blackie" for short. I don't know what I'd have done without you these last few days.
She'd always seen him as a friend. During the lonely years of maximum secrecy on The Project, when she'd only been able to get occasional long leaves off-base, and short leaves didn't give her time to take the buses, Blackie had loaned her his car -- a fine green convertible -- and let her drive it into the city to be with her husband. He'd asked nothing in return for the favor save that she park it with his own friends in town, to keep it safe. She was fortunate to have a friend like Blackie.
When she'd first met him, he'd been annoying. Pushy, insinuating -- it had been very obvious to her, even at nineteen, that he had been hoping to get under her tail -- despite the fact that she was married, and almost newlywed at that. He'd often been fun to talk with, though, and she'd respected him as a physicist. She could use his attraction to her to get minor favors out of him, and she did --she'd always been good at that sort of minor manipulation.
But then, almost two years ago, on the day of The Test -- he'd fainted, right there in the bunker, and she'd been worried about him. They'd all been working hard, pushing themselves, and handling inherently dangerous materials and equipment. Had he suffered some injury, or poisoning? Fuchs was at worst a horny jerk, and hardly the worst of that sort she'd ever encountered. She'd helped Raindew get the Lippanzer scientist to the infirmary.
And after that -- he'd changed. It was obvious that the realization of the great historic event of which they'd both been part had hit home. He'd stopped trying to start an affair with her, stopped even making insinuations. He'd become the perfect gentlecolt that one might have expected him to be from his intelligence and upper-middle-class Neighropan background.
From merely tolerating him because he was useful, Sweetie had gone to seeing him as a real friend. Which was good, because as Rich sickened, as her own world darkened, she so needed somepony on whom she could rely.
His motives were clearly no longer sexual, which was also good, because she'd probably have kicked anypony who made any sort of pass at her in the face, given Rich's illness. It had helped that he'd started seeing Nurse Raindew after The Test. Raindew was single, and really nice -- Sweetie hoped that Blackie and Raindew got married -- and the Army nurse was obviously giving Blackie whatever comfort he'd previously hoped to take from a married mare.
Though sometimes Sweetie wasn't sure that it really was working out so well, because she caught a haunted look in Raindew's eyes ... but then, everything looked dark to her these days. She mustn't impose her own emotional state on the phenomenal world -- that was the classic Experimental Bias, to be avoided at all costs. Blackie had developed into a truly fine stallion. Delayed maturation, she thought. Not uncommon among hyper-intellectual types, like him -- or me.
"I'm all right," Sweetie told Fuchs. "Just a little bit ... all this." She got to her hooves, and regarded her friends. Blackie's kind, pale face. Raw-boned, saturnine Oppenhorser, looking gloomier than ever -- his lugubrious expression somehow warmed her, for she knew that he cared about her. Dear old Bright Home, who had brought her into the project, as always standing a bit awkwardly -- a brilliant mind, who understood how the stars burned, but not to be trusted handling delicate equipment. Dark, intense Tailor Strangelove, always so energetic, like a bold warrior on an intellectual battleground. None of her family, and none of his, had made it out here to New Mexicolt, but these Ponies, her companions of the mind, were there for her, and she was very grateful.
Though she was still alone.
For there was something none of them knew, something she could not, did not dare to tell them.
***
When Rich had been in his final agony, tormented by the cancers spreading through his frame, Sweetie had -- despite her horror -- seen it as a fundamentally-intellectual problem. She knew there was nothing her mind couldn't master.
So she had bought and read medical books on his condition. She had learned exactly why it was inoperable, incurable. And then, stymied in her hope for a remission, she had taken the next step in her researches.
She had read up on pharmacology. Specifically, on the effects of painkillers on the equine body when administered far above recommended dosages. And she had learned exactly what to administer in order to induce a quiet, dreamless sleep, from which a Pony would never awake.
Sweetie and Rich had both been raised Yehvist -- and, in Yehvist philosophy, suicide is a serious sin. Sweetie was a philosophical atheist, but Rich wasn't. So she couldn't ask Rich if he wanted to die.
Not that she'd needed to ask him. His cries of anguish, in the process of which he'd more than once verbally wished for death, were plea enough. Though he was not in his right mind then. Sweetie figured that, if there was an All-Father, He would forgive her darling this inadvertent sin.
Then, she paid a visit to the base infirmary. The room and the cabinets were locked, but to one who routinely cracked the safes where the Project kept its real secrets, the wards on the medical supplies were as gossamer webs, to be brushed aside by Sweetie's talented hooves. She removed certain supplies -- from the stores rather than ready cabinet, so that her theft would not be discovered for weeks.
Finally, Sweetie went to see her husband one last time. He was asleep, the limited amount of morphine they allowed him combined with exhaustion to offer him temporary relief. She was sad that she wouldn't get to say goodbye to him -- her resolve almost wavered -- but then she reflected that if she did not do this now, she might not have another chance this visit, and then he would have to suffer at least a week's more torment in his slow slide to death. Her dearest one had already suffered more than enough.
So she kissed him on his forehead, the last time she would do this in his life, and that sufficed her for a farewell. Then she injected the supplies she had extracted directly into his veins, taking care to use a previously-bruised injection site. He stirred slightly as the needle pricked him, not quite coming awake.
"Hush, darling," she said softly. "It's almost over now. No more pain." And at that her eyes, which had remained dry during the earlier steps of her plan, misted and then overflowed, but she was careful to withdraw the needle without further harming her beloved. He had been harmed enough by her already.
Then she sat by his bedside, scarce able to see her husband through her tears, as the overdose of opiates coursed through his blood, passing the blood-brain barrier and gently, slowly depressed the functioning of his brainstem, shutting down his autonomic nervous system. His heart-beat slowed, his breathing shallowed -- there was a dreadful convulsion, noticed at most dimly by his sleeping brain -- and then it was over.
Rich Greentree, sinless, was with his ancestors.
Sweetie Finemare, who had sinned very greatly, survived. Though she wasn't sure why she wanted to survive, now that her great love was forever gone.
She looked at her supplies. She was a good engineer. She had included a safety margin for accidents and spoilage.
There had been no accidents, no spoilage. She had performed her experiment flawlessly. As usual.
There was enough for one more.
As she considered this dark course, an image rose before her mind
Two little foals, one fair and one dark, both helpless. Both loving her; counting upon her for their survival. Two innocent young fillies, who should not have their lives scarred, right when they were just beginning, by the deaths of both their parents. Light and shadow, and both of them supremely good. Sundreamer and Moondreamer.
They needed her. She would not leave them alone.
She put her supplies back in her bag, went to the bathroom, cleaned herself up until she no longer looked distraught. She walked casually, her expression unconcerned. She nodded to the night nurse on the way out.
"I spoke to him a bit. He's sleeping now," Sweetie said. "He looks peaceful."
They would remember this as the sad misunderstanding of a wife who hadn't seen the symptoms that his body was finally failing. In social engineering, misdirection was always better than outright evasion.
She put them in the glove compartment of Schwarzwald Fuchs' car. Then she drove out miles beyond the town, and stopped by a roadside scenic view. She took a spade from the trunk, walked out a bit, dug a shallow hole, replaced the dirt and patted it down well, rolled some rocks over it.
This wouldn't fool any skilled eyes who knew where she had stopped, but it was unlikely that anypony would. Then she drove back to town, to her motel room, and lay down to sleep.
She was remarkably calm, even cold, considering what she had just done. She slept soundly.
It was not until the morning, when she woke and rolled over, coming out of a dream in which Rich was loving her, and half-expecting to see his dear face on the pillow next to her, that she broke down crying, to the point that it took her an hour to simply leave the room.
***
She wasn't arrested. She wasn't suspected. The death certificate read "natural causes," with notes regarding Rich's bodily weakness due to cancer and depression of the central nervous system due to anesthesia. Nopony ever realized just how much morphine had been in Rich's system at the point of death. Sweetie was almost shocked by the shoddiness of the system.
Sweetie was never punished by the State of New Mexicolt for the murder of her husband. Instead, she would punish herself for it, in memory and nightmare, for the rest of her life.
She knew why she had done it, knew that it made sense, that the alternative for Rich would have been terribly worse. She was not sorry that he had died, then, that his suffering had ended.
But still, when all was said and done, she had murdered her husband. She had killed the Pony she had loved most in all the world.
Sweetie believed in no gods, but she very much believed in good and evil, and there was no way that this could be anything but "evil," even if the evil had been necessary in the service of a greater good. Rich was good, too good to commit suicide; it was only rational that she, who was not quite so good, should relieve him of the burden of that sin. She did not know whether there was life beyond this life, but if there was, she was sure Rich was happy.
She was less optimistic about her own prospects.
***
Back by the graveside, the somber little party was breaking up.
"Come on," said Schwarzwald Fuchs. "Let's get you home."
By his side, pretty pink red-headed Raindew nodded agreement. The nurse looked very sad, which was understandable given the occasion.
Sweetie looked at the grave, uncertain of herself. "I don't know," she said. "I feel I should stay longer with him."
"If you insist, my dear," replied the Lippanzer scientist. "But not too long -- you have two little filles back in your quarters who are probably very eager to see their mother again. We'll wait by the car." The couple walked off.
Sweetie gazed at the headstone.
RICH GREENTREE
1916-1940
BRIGHT MIND,
BELOVED HUSBAND
Not much, to sum up a life, to sum up a soul. It left so much unspecified. The way he smiled when he was happy. The clear merry sound of his laughter. The little gasps he made in their most private passion. The way he'd seen the whole Universe with joy and wonder.
If there was an afterlife, there must be some awesomely supportive substrate if it were a transition; or detailed analysis if it were some sort of copying process. Do you know the secrets now? she asked her husband. Can you tell me? Or is it forbidden? Or are you just -- snuffed out?
I hope you don't hate me for killing you, she thought. I had to -- for your sake. You were in too much pain. But if you hate me, I'd understand. If you want vengeance, I'd understand. If you sought it, I wouldn't resist.
And if there's any One else out there, the fault was mine! Punish me for it, not him. He is blameless!
Nothing answered her. She expected no answer. This was reality, not some weird fiction. No ghosts, no gods or demons, were there to condemn or forgive her.
And if she felt a bit better after that internal outburst, there were sound reasons, well-grounded in fundental Joyous psychology, why such should be the case.
Goodbye, Richie, my darling. I suppose I'll go on with my life now. I already miss you so much, and I will miss you even more in the times to come. But I couldn't join you. I hope you forgive me this. Our children need me.
I shall always love you.
It was surely her imagination that she felt as if Rich, somewhere, understood.
She walked to the car, by which Blackie Fuchs was standing, in which Raindew was sitting, and nodded.
"I'm ready to go home now," she said, calmly.
The intense and strange flare in Fuchs' eyes was surely also in Sweetie's imagination.
***
From within the form of Schwarzwald Fuchs, an entity older than the terrene globe on which they stood regarded Sweetie Finemare with admiration.
Such intellect, D thought. Such strength. Such fire!
So you want to schtup her, commented Schwarzwald. Why don't you? You're the super-powerful alien demon creature utterly beyond our equine understanding.
The psychic equivalent of a slap sent Schwarzwald's soul reeling.
Philistine! D protested indignantly. You entirely misunderstand me. Our lusts of that sort are entirely satisfied by Nurse Raindew, whom -- incidentally -- I won by means of my superior capacity for apparent sympathy. Your crude means would never have worked on her. Still less, he added, would they have worked on Sweetie Finemare. She is a very exceptional mare, one who has almost transcended the limits of her savage culture and primitive technology. Surely even you can perceive that.
I understand that you want her, replied Schwarzwald. He had long since realized that D either couldn't, or didn't want to, kill him. At least not yet. So he had become bolder, over the last year.
It is not a lust such as your feeble mind grasps, asserted D. It is an appreciation for the height of excellence achieved by a species, even one as simple as your own. He gripped Schwarzwald in some obscure fashion and glared into his immaterial eyes. Here, I shall explain it to you in very simple terms:
My dear old friends Fusion and Gravity have chosen to become incarnate on this plane, as Ponies. They have not possessed an existing mind, like yours, but instead occupied embryonic flesh-forms before their souls could form. And of couse, being Cosmic like myself, they picked a point of entry which would allow them to select suitable hosts.
I now, D said, understand why they picked precisely this spacetime to enter. For they wanted a mother. He regarded Sweetie Finemare.
And what a mother they have found!
He grinned, like the predator he was.
This, he said, should prove interesting.
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I could almost see Pinkie and Paradise looking back when I read that bit about worldlines. Oh, Sweetie, if only you knew...
Really, "if only you knew" could be applied to everyone in this chapter except for D. And maybe even him, in reference to certain events.
Great stuff. Historical fiction is a rare genre to see on this site; I always enjoy seeing it. Looking forward to more.
Alright, you've won me over. This is getting interesting.
Thanks for the informative author's note by the way..
Looking forward to more.
Shut up, Discord. Leave Celestia and Luna alone.
Before i start reading this, how does this involve spike and rarity if its before they were even thought of
6112353
Gaah! I must have accidentally posted this to a Spike or Rarity folder! I'm going to find where and get it out! Very sorry!
6112700 its alright
6112866
Is it still in there? I'm thinking I may have pulled it right away. See, recently I published "Audience Reaction," which is a Spike and Rarity story, and put it on a lot of sites. And what happens sometimes is that Trinity, the first story I ever published on Fimfiction, is the first one under the cursor and if I make a mistake, Trinity gets put on the site instead.
Mind you, I like Trinity, but it's most definitely not a romantic comedy about Spike and Rarity!
6113533 lol yea, even though it would be interesting to have them travel back in time to before lunas banishment
Wow it's good so far i can't wait for the next chapter!
came back and reread this again really wish you would continue work on it it's to good to just fade.